Reaction
by Complicity
Summary: OneShot. Based on 10th September. "The Spoiler."


A/N. Hiya. Here's a little Oneshot based on "The Spoiler" for 10th September. (Oh come on, it had to happen...) I'm still persevering with Sick I promise, & I have so many things on the back burner I'll be needing a bigger stove. Love, hugs & appreciation to all who read & give me feedback. XXX

**Reaction.**

"You can't be serious."

"I can be." He stalks her into the office. Her fists are already clenched. Why does he always have to do this? He's so insistent that he knows the inside of her own head better than she does. It's infuriating. He thinks she's doing this on purpose; Only showing him the cold exterior in some conscious act of self preservation. She can't win. She could break down and cry, and she'd be betraying herself because that's the last thing she feels like doing and the last thing that will help. She'd be faking it, and he'd smother her with empty words and she'd be as frustrated and angry as she already is. So instead she is honest, she is blank and empty, determined to find some space away from anybody so that she can just try to stop her head from spinning. It makes no difference at all; Still he follows and chips away at her reserve and only worsens the screaming racket inside her mind.

"But we need to talk."

"Not yet!" And then he looks at her, head cocked to the side. He tells her with his eyes that she's in denial. She wants to wring his neck and throw him out of the window for thinking she's that bloody stupid. What's the point in throwing their shock laced venomous snipes at one another? Why can't he understand that it really is as simple as needing some thinking space. Without it, her hot headed temper lingers like a storm cloud and threatens to shove him over the edge, stick the knife in and twist it. The niggling urge that refuses to be ignored.

"Now." Because that's what he's decided and, more often than not, they're as stubborn as each other. Perhaps he does understand, perhaps he's just as hell bent on self destruction as she is. There's an outside chance that they're more similar than either would care to admit. This coping strategy is so deeply embedded in their psyche's that they can't really feel what they should be feeling at all. They need to counteract that. They need to push one another towards a downward spiral of self loathing because they want to feel the physical pain of that; Let that override the awful echo of the news they've just been told.

"Fine. Now."

"Yes."

"Right. Now, I think we both know how we're going to deal with this."

"Deal with this?"

"I'll book the termination. You don't need to be there."

"The? No, this isn't funny Jac. Don't try to cover this up with your infantile sarcasm."

"I'm deadly serious."

"You're not."

"I didn't want this and neither did you. The sooner I sort it out the sooner we go back to normal. We don't have to speak, or pretend to be friends anymore. If anything, it's a relief."

"Stop it."

"No. It's my decision, decision made. It gets you out of my life, and maybe even my office. Bonus."

He doesn't see his next move coming, and neither does she. For a moment his own cheek feels a phantom smarting. He hears the crack and it resonates around the silent room as it had when she pelted him across the face outside theatre. He holds his breath as she stumbles to the side, creasing in two and landing on the sofa with a soft, slow motion whump. He turns his back, eyes closed, left hand clutching his right to will away the evidence; The stinging sensation in his palm. Numb, foggy silence rings in his ears. He doesn't dare take a breath. An acute form of denial buds inside his mind and tells him that it didn't just happen. The last hour and a half did not just happen; He's eagerly feeling his baby's first kicks, not contemplating the fact that she may never be born at all. He takes two violent steps forward, away from Jac, his shoulders still heaving and trembling with fury. Her desk falls victim to his next assault. Neatly stacked papers and files fly sideways and scatter across the floor with a mournful flump, as pathetic and easily yielding as the woman he just slapped across the face. Her computer barely makes a bang as it splinters against the wall, coming to pieces with ease but unable to puncture the ever louder silence that blocks his ears. He can't even hear his own ragged breathing as he surveys the destruction before him. He's dizzy with unease, legs jellied and telling him he's soaring head first for regret. Only then does something outside the confines of his own skull make its way into his thoughts. Only then does the quietest, most forlorn girlish whimper from the sofa behind him drown out the emptiness, as if a switch has been flicked on.

Until it happens, until she's actually knocked straight off her feet by his ferocious slap, she doesn't realise how badly she needs it. The physical ache, throbbing, is as cathartic as it gets. All of a sudden she can feel again. It's normal, and upsetting, and crystal clear in the wake of the fog she's been entrenched in since Mr T broke the news. It's as if the sofa comes up to meet her, to break her fall, as opposed to the other way around. She can see her hands, and she marvels at the way they physically tremble through her bleary vision. She doesn't even look up as he starts to lay into her belongings, just lets the clatter of destruction mark the conflict inside her own head. She holds her breath as he rips her computer monitor from its socket and launches it against the wall. It just highlights the irrelevance of her painstakingly well organised life. He trashes it all with an animalistic vigour. Just as he has been, not quite so literally, for months. Then finally, her eyes are hot with the tears she didn't want to shed in vain.

Then, he's there. In a stark contrast to his wild outburst, his arms are soft and gentle. They seem to cover her completely, hold her together with ease as she cries into his chest and clutches the fabric of his scrub top. She doesn't think she's cried like this since she was a child; Not so self indulgently, so without reservation. The door opens because, of course, their commotion has alerted the whole ward to their distress, but swings shut again without disturbance. They cling to one another without the need for vocal reassurance. In that connection, lies the chance that everything just might be okay.


End file.
